Off the Beaten Track of Empire
Sir Raymond Priestley, veteran antarctic
explorer who joined the ship at Melbourne,
was impressed by Britannia's gyroscopic sta
bilizers, capable of cutting a 20° roll down
to a tolerable 6°.
But even he drew sardonic
amusement from the tune the band chose to
play when the yacht pulled away from the
wharf. It was "Cockleshell Heroes."
Said Sir Raymond cheerfully, "If we turn
turtle between here and the Antarctic, there
will be plenty who can say 'I told you so!' "
Though confident, Admiral Abel Smith was
braced to meet the worst. Weather reports
warned him he would meet a heavy swell
with troughs 200 to 300 feet wide and nearly
40 feet high. As it turned out, the sea re
mained quite peaceful all the way to the
Chatham Islands-"royal
weather,"
the
yachtsmen called it.
The islands' wind-swept port of Waitangi
consists of a few red-roofed buildings huddled
on a bluff. On the neighboring uplands lie
close-cropped pastures, with an occasional tree
hunchbacked against the gale. The better
meadows can support five sheep to the acre
and enable islanders to export some 20,000
sheep a year, plus 3,000 bales of wool.
Of the 600 inhabitants, most are of Maori
blood, and it seemed that every able-bodied
citizen had turned out to welcome Prince
Philip at an underground roast, or hangi. On a
bed of hot stones was laid a covering of damp
grasses, followed by wire trays of meat (a
bullock and five sheep) wrapped in cabbage
leaves. Then came a tarpaulin, sacking, and
earth. For four hours the imprisoned steam
caressed the beef and mutton until the meat
could be cut with a spoon.
The race meeting after lunch was delayed
10 to 15 minutes while the officials tried to
persuade one of the Maori jockeys to stop
eating and saddle up. He finally appeared
on the course, a field roughly staked out near
Waitangi. The home stretch ran past the
grandstand, a corrugated iron structure hold
ing some 90 men, women, and assorted
youngsters.
Overweight Jockeys Shed Their Shoes
The horses, many of thoroughbred origin,
carried riders of all sizes and a fine variety
of costume. One gentleman jockey wore a
black riding cap and pink coat along with
striped blue trousers. Others went in for
sports trousers tucked into their socks. An
especially formidable entrant was capped with
an army Glengarry and sported a full ginger
beard. Any jockey declared overweight solved
the problem by removing his shoes. The
whole organization came under the direction
of the Chatham Islands Jockey Club-second
oldest in New Zealand.
What the races lacked in formality they
more than made up for in enthusiasm. The
Duke, talking to everyone within reach and
snapping pictures with his little Minox, acted
as starter for one race. This was just a matter
of waiting till six riders had managed to get
in a fairly straight line and then dropping a
white flag and yelling "Go!"
At sea once more, Britannia crossed the
date line and confronted Comdr. J. H.
Adams with a crisis. Since there were two
Wednesdays in succession, he had two birth
days to observe-and two occasions on which
to stand treat for the whole wardroom. He
accepted the penalty gracefully, in exchange
for the curious distinction.
By this time life aboard ship had settled
down to an amiable routine. As Britannia
entered the roaring forties in earnest, Prince
Philip passed the word that beards could
properly be grown, and began one himself.
The admiral and 115 other officers and seamen
followed his example.
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